Page 19

Warmth envelops me, a living heat that pulses with a rhythm distinct from my own.

I blink open my eyes; the morning light streams in like an uninvited guest, and I squint against its glare.

My mind feels sluggish, trying to catch up with the reality of Mark's solid body pressed against mine, his breath steady in the quiet room.

I piece together the jigsaw of last night's events.

The memories trickle in—laughter, the clink of glasses, the slide of silk against my skin as I somehow ended up stripping down to my underwear while Mark tried to get me into bed.

I groan. Good job, Desmond.

Now fully awake, I can't help but cringe at the mental replay. Mortification floods my veins as hot as the flush spreading across my cheeks. Yet, there's also an odd surge of relief.

Despite his playboy reputation and the way he can command a room—or frankly, anything or anyone—with that bossy, charming arrogance, Mark hasn't taken advantage of the situation, or me.

I remember how he got down on his knees and took off my heels, one by one. How he didn’t just take last night. I reflect on the unexpected chivalry, the tenderness in his actions.

Thanks for not being a total cliché, Zolotov, I think to myself, unsure if I'm more grateful or just plain surprised by his restraint.

He's seen me at a moment of absolute disarray and chose respect over opportunity. In this moment, a deep admiration forms in my heart. I recall that first party we went to, how even back then, he refused to fuck me when he realized I was drunk.

Mark Zolotov, full of surprises, I think, my lips curling into a half-smile as I feel my heartbeat pick up its pace ever so slightly.

Just as this silent praise settles within me, Mark stirs beside me. His short black hair is a tousled mess, adding a softer edge to his chiseled jawline. With his eyes still closed, he stretches, the sheets shifting and revealing the contours of his perfectly sculpted abdomen as he raises his arms, his shirt riding up in the process.

How I long to run my hands through them.

“Morning already?” His voice is groggy, yet it rumbles through me, setting off tiny sparks.

“Seems so,” I reply, watching as he blinks open those blue-gray eyes. They lock onto mine, and for a suspended moment, the world outside this room ceases to exist. It's just him and me, and the weight of a gaze that feels like a touch.

“Sleep well?” I ask, my voice low.

“Better than usual,” he admits, and there's a trace of surprise in his tone—an admission of how sharing my bed was the most comfortable thing in the world.

The air between us crackles. Without a second thought, I reach my hand beneath the covers until I find his. His fingers graze softly against my skin. I swallow hard, entranced by the gravitational pull of our mutual attraction that we both strive to deny.

“Your restraint is...noteworthy,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady despite the tempest brewing inside me.

“Can’t say it was easy,” he admits, his voice hoarse.

“Thanks...” I trail off, as ‘thanks’ feels too small for the storm he's stirring in my chest, for how he's slowly dismantling all my defenses with nothing but a look.

The heat from his skin is a silent siren call, and I'm a willing captive to the allure.

I shift closer, my breath catching at the proximity, at the dangerous dance we've been skirting around since that first and only night together.

“Quinn,” Mark says, voice barely above a whisper, but it carries a weight. It's a question and an invitation all rolled into one syllable, and it sends shivers down my spine.

“Mark,” I exhale, my voice barely more than a fragile thread.

My hand rises, grazing his chin, and this simple contact sends a jolt through me.

It's enough. Enough to shatter the dam of restraint that's held back the river of desire coursing through me.

I lean in, closing the distance, and our lips meet in a kiss that ignites like a spark in dry tinder.

Passion flares, hot and undeniable, as I press myself against him, my hands tangling in his short black hair.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss until there's no room for thought, only feeling.

I’m still half-naked and his hand rests on my lower back, making me tremble. The world narrows down to the taste of him, the scent of his skin, the hard lines of his body against mine. There's no room for doubt or hesitation now; there's only this moment, raw and real.

He rolls us over, pinning me beneath him, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sears straight to my soul. “Tell me you want this,” he growls, his voice rough with need.

“Yes,” I gasp out, lost in the storm he's awakened within me.

“I want this—I want you.”

That's all he needs. He kisses me again, a possessive claim that leaves no room for anything but surrender. Then he's trailing kisses down my neck, my chest, and lower, taking his time as if he plans to memorize every inch of me with his lips.

When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he looks up, seeking permission in my heavy-lidded gaze before he slips it off.

When he looks at me like I’m in the orbit of his world, my head spins.

“Part your legs, Quinn,” he growls, sliding his hands up my thighs.

With a racing heart, I do as I’m told.

I watch him dip his head down between my legs, and then I feel his tongue slide over my slit.

It’s the sweetest, most maddening sensation, and immediately, I feel alive.

He slides it over and over and over, from the bottom to the top, and on the fifth slide, he flicks his tongue over my clit.

“Mark,” I gasp, my hands reaching for his hair as a surge of pleasure washes over my senses.

“Stop teasing…”

“Where’s the fun in that?” his voice vibrates against my pussy, setting off a whole different chain of sensation.

He flicks his tongue again, pressing it hard in short intervals.

I feel myself soak, and when he slides a finger into my pussy, I know he realizes it too.

“Quinn,” he gasps, pleased, and he curves his finger, his tongue still flicking against my clit.

It’s a meditative trance.

He’s slow and gentle, and when I begin rolling my hips for more, he listens.

He puts in another finger, the tips fluttering against the spot just beneath where his tongue is.

He consumes me, makes me blind to anything but him.

I bite into my lower lip, and my fingers clench the sheets.

“Mark…” My voice is faint, a squeal.

He begins fingering me harder, his tongue lapping me up like the river, and I feel my juices drip down beneath my legs.

“Oh my god,” I mewl as I feel the epicenter of pleasure take form, ready to erupt.

I lurch off the bed, and Mark’s steady hands reach for my stomach, pushing me back down as he continues his efforts.

The world around me drums away, and I feel the drop coming.

“Mark…” I scream, and then I burst, the tingling sensation bursts from that one spot, spreading through my core, making my legs tremble and my back lurch.

I see stars and hear Mark pant as he continues to finger me through clenched muscles.

Only when the last of the orgasm fades does Mark extract himself from between my legs.

I watch, breathless, and he makes quick work of his clothes.

There he is, sitting with his knees on either side of my hips, an Adonis of a man.

Without thinking, I lift off the bed, my hands gliding down his muscled chest, those toned arms, to the curve of his ass.

He growls and pushes me back against the bed with his weight, his arms holding him up.

For a moment, all I see is my reflection in his eyes.

“You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” he says.

“Have you ever seen yourself naked?” I reply.

I see a glimmer of pride in his eyes as his hands move between our bodies until they rest on my thighs.

He navigates between them, encouraging me to open wide.

I part for him, and he positions himself above me.

I watch, my breath hitching in my throat when his eyes glaze over as they travel away from my eyes to my throat, down to my breasts.

He links fingers through the strap of my bra, inching it down and moving on to the next one until my bra rests below my breasts.

His head dips, and he licks my nipple, his other hand caressing my breast. By now, I’m a trembling mess of want, need, and desire.

I reach for his lower back and pull him closer, and when I feel the tip of his cock hit against my apex, I gasp.

A slow, lazy smile spreads over his face, and he gently inches into me, just an inch or so.

I want to scream, yell, run for more.

But he’s the kind of man who takes things slow, before turning into a run.

I know that, so I allow him to enter me agonizingly slow, his hands now cupping both my breasts for support as he slides into me.

He squeezes my breasts just as he fills me to the hilt, his balls squeezing against me, and I scream out his name—“Maaark!”

It’s infuriating, it’s delightful.

It’s everything.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he whispers into my ear, before pulling out and ramming into me, harder this time.

He pulls out again. Ram.

Out. In.

“Fuck,” I moan, grabbing onto his hips, my own lurching to meet his.

He slides back in and this time, doesn’t leave.

He begins to fuck me, every roll of his hips, every touch of his hand, every sound of his moans an assault on my senses.

I clutch his ass and hold him in…

deep.

He pounds me hard and fast. His hands reach for my waist, locking me into position as the bed moves below us.

It screeches and groans in protest, but we’re fucking so hard that there’s no concern that the whole house might hear us.

Mark tilts his hips up, his cock hitting against my upper wall, and I feel a spark form.

“Oh my god,” I say. “Right there. Yes, right there.”

He leans back, his large hands now gripping my waist, his fingers spreading over my stomach, and he moves so fast that the sweat trickles down his forehead, falling on my skin.

I don’t care. I grip the sheets, and he smiles as he continues to pound me.

That spark has become a wildfire, and when his tip touches the spark this time, I explode.

“Mark,” I moan. “It’s happening.”

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he commands.

“Cum for me.”

It’s the way he wants to please me that acts as the tipping point.

My eyes blast open, and the colors around me merge into stars as the blood gushes to my head.

The pleasure rides up my back, down my legs, across my core.

I feel his cock stiffen and he spills into me as my pussy convulses from the orgasm, pulling him dry.

This moment is the highest high I’ve ever felt, and I close my eyes as the last of my orgasm rips through me.

Mark catches his breath, still inside me, and a minute later pulls out.

We’re both panting when he gathers me in his arms. We lie like that in silent stillness.

The sheets are twisted around us, evidence of the storm we just weathered together.

He has one arm thrown over his head, looking every bit like a Bratva prince at rest, and the other draped possessively over my waist.

“We should get to work,” I murmur, my voice husky—or maybe it's from screaming his name half an hour ago.

“Should we?” He turns his head, a smirk playing on his lips, his blue-gray eyes gleaming with something like triumph.

“Unlike you, I have the ability to get fired,” I can't help but smile back at him, though his arrogance should be grating.

Instead, it's endearing, which is its own kind of danger.

His thumb draws lazy circles on my hip bone, sending little sparks of pleasure radiating through me. I trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble that didn't exist last night.

“Careful,” he teases, capturing my finger with his lips briefly.

“I might start thinking you're getting attached.”

“Never,” I say, but my heart twists into itself, and in that moment, I know it’s a lie.

***

Later, the day finds its rhythm, and we retreat to our separate corners of this sprawling house—Mark to his office, brimming with shelves of organized folders and hard disks, and me to mine, chaos reigning supreme.

“Quinn,” Mark calls out, suddenly appearing at my doorway with an impish grin. “How do you feel about Chinese for lunch?”

“Only if you're buying,” I answer without looking up from my laptop.

“Like I’d ever let you,” he says, aware that he's leaning against the frame, watching me work. It's distracting to have him here, all that casual power and smoldering looks. Yet, it's also invigorating, like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.

“By the way, you type loudly,” he observes with mock severity.

“And you're annoyingly observant,” I shoot back, finally glancing up to catch the humor dancing in his eyes.

“Guilty as charged.” He pushes off from the door and strolls in, placing a takeout menu on my desk. “Pick your poison.”

“Kung Pao chicken,” I say. As I hand him back the menu, our fingers brush. The touch is electric, sparking a warmth that spreads up my arm and settles in my chest.

“Thanks,” he says, holding my gaze a moment too long, his blue-gray eyes searching mine. I swallow hard. It's happening again—that pull, that inexplicable tug at my heartstrings. I'm falling for Mark Zolotov, and isn't that just the most terrifying thing? I quickly turn back to my computer, hoping he can’t see the effect he has on me.

I can feel his gaze linger on me for a moment longer before he retreats, and the soft click of the door signals his exit.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a series of these small interruptions—flirtatious banter, shared smiles, a touch that lingers a beat too long. Each time, I'm left a little more breathless, a little more aware of how deep I'm getting in this game we're playing.

As the sky starts to darken outside my window, I lean back in my chair and stretch. The house is quiet, too quiet, and I find myself wandering toward Mark's office, pulled by an invisible force I can't—and don't want to—resist.

I reach the door, but then stop in my tracks. What is there to say? By now, we’ve run out of excuses. Dinner is behind us, and it’s late. If I go in, I’ll end up in his bed.

I want that tonight. But what happens when I want the same tomorrow? And the night after? And after? What happens when he says he’s done? Charlie Letvin hasn’t been a name I’ve heard around here much lately. Something tells me Letvin has found a new toy, and I’m no longer a target. The goal of keeping me safe seems to be a success, and now that the plan has worked, whatever this is has to come to an end… right? This contract will see its fruition one of these days, with Mark and I both having fulfilled our side of the bargain.

I feel a lump in my throat and quietly retreat to my office. What was I thinking? Every glance through an open doorway, every shared joke that's too intimate to be casual—it's like stitching a pattern I didn't intend to create. I'm not just playing house with Mark; I'm weaving myself into the fabric of his life. A life I will soon no longer be a part of.

Back in my office, I sink into the chair, wrapping my arms around myself. I can't deny it anymore. My feelings for Mark are deepening, seeping into places they have no right to be. He's a Zolotov, all charm and danger wrapped up in a criminally handsome package. And I'm... what? A girl who runs a dating agency, smart enough to know better than to mix feelings with whatever this is.

Not to mention, it's the deception that gnaws at me, eating away each time I catch him smiling at me like I'm someone special, like I'm his. We're meant to be playing pretend fiancées, nothing more. His family shouldn't be misled by my presence or the lies we're spinning. Yet, here I am, relishing the facade, craving the moments when we forget it's all just an act.

How can I reconcile this guilt, this pleasure, this deceit? His family doesn’t deserve to get their hopes up, only to have it dashed.

I don’t either. I push back from my desk and stand, pacing the room.

My hopes can’t be dashed if I don’t allow them to be. Perhaps I need to live in the moment and savor the stolen seconds, the shared glances, and the one-off night in his bed. Because when this comes to an end—and it will come to an end —I'll have these memories to hold on to. Memories of being wanted and cherished, even if it was all just part of the game.

Mark needs to be taken like a dose of medicine. With caution and warning. He soothes my soul, but it’s only temporary. Sooner or later, we will no longer have Charlie Letvin’s shadow hanging over us as an excuse. This whole situation will end, and his family will find out the truth, and I will have to go back to my ordinary life.

For now, I realize I should enjoy what’s probably the last few days between us and not hold any expectations. Unless I want to get burned.